Came the Last Night of Sadness
by harmonyopc
Summary: "Hannibal heard what Will didn't say. And Hannibal waited. He watched Will's face crumple. Disorientation, helpless rage, despair had had their moments… and now, now came the break." Set after the episode "Roti" (with alternate ending). Rated M for violence and some sexuality. Mentions of past Willana; one-sided Hannigram, possibly more intense Hannigram in later chapters
1. Came the Last Night of Sadness

Coming to. Coming back. Surfacing.

Not that he had been swimming; he had already drowned. He'd been down on the bottom of a lake, somewhere deep and unknown, for so long. So long, he couldn't remember anything else – because there was nothing else to remember. One with the earth, the mud, the worms and the fish that nibbled and tugged, the long-tendriled vines that – still wrapped around his limbs. Resisting.

When his eyes drifted open, of their own accord, everything was too bright. Gray and black and white; soft blobs. Out of focus. _Wrong._

"Let me go," he said. "Let me go back."

Dr. Lecter heard the soft squeak escape Will's lips. He was trying to speak. Hannibal hadn't missed the way Will's eyes had cracked open, so wildly unfocused; the way his limbs jerked ever-so-slightly against the restraints with what little strength the drugs allowed him. A surge of excitement jolted at Lecter's heart, easily hidden but no less intense. Days – weeks – really, months of preparation had gone into this moment, if one thought about it. And oh, Hannibal had.

Finally, it was time to have his fun.

"Will." Hannibal's tone was urgent. "Will, wake up. You've been very ill."

Will's head moved slightly. His lips parted. He moaned; Hannibal drank in the sound.

It was the sound of a man whose memory was returning.

Dr. Lecter pressed the first trigger. Will's eyes flew open, and this time they were anything but unfocused.

"Alana," he moaned. His eyes drifted closed, his brow furrowed. Dr. Lecter's eyes narrowed. Then Dr. Lecter pressed the second trigger, and Will _screamed. _

"WHERE IS SHE?"

"Will." Dr. Lecter made sure his voice contained just the right amount of aggrieved hesitation. "Will, you know what happened. You were there."

Unbidden, a series of sensations and images flooded Will – packed together, yet out of order; a deck of cards he was powerless to reshuffle. The shock of cold, of himself oozing into the snow. The look of triumph on Dr. Gideon's face. The sound of shattering glass. Trying to wrestle the gun back away from Garrett Jacob Hobbs; instead, feeling himself melt, pouring over Hobbs as well. A single shot ringing out; a second shot, moments later, Will couldn't be quite sure he heard over the ringing in his ears. The gun, so small and black, so hugely important – the only solid object in the entire world. Alana crumpling, folding, like … a hand of cards.

The brightness of Alana's eyes in his dimly-lit classroom. "A doctor who treats herself has a fool for a patient." The almost-complete darkness of the closet. The clacking of her heels on the floor. The real, true blackness that came over his vision at the point of climax, while his muscles jerked and spasmed, out of his control, a mockery of a seizure. The sharp edges that suddenly didn't matter. The harsh, hellish white light peeking through the crack under the door, threatening to expose. Her gentle voice straining to be silent. The way her head tilted to one side while she explained away her lack of regret. The smell of her hair when she gave in and embraced him. The smell of her hair when he knelt between her legs. Her hand over his mouth, just for a reminder when, without knowing, he began to vocalize. The way she looked at him after, the not-quite-pity in her eyes, knowing she was picking up a stray but unable to resist the pull at her heart. Knowing she could not refrain from giving comfort, no matter how temporary, to a thing so helpless as Will Graham had become.

The gleam of her casket, reminding Will of the stock of a rifle. The burnished wood the same color as her hair.

"Dr. Lecter," he moaned. "Dr. Lecter, was it real?"

"Will," Hannibal began, allowing some gentleness to creep into his tone, "as I said before, you've been very ill. You were present when she was shot, but you had a very high fever. You were in the hospital." He watched Will's fuzzy, pain-filled mind searching for memories of a hospital room, knowing Will wouldn't find anything.

"What did they do with Garrett Jacob Hobbs?"

Dr. Lecter knew Will meant to say "with Dr. Gideon". Will was aware that to the rest of the world, Hobbs was dead. But the beauty of the chemicals Lecter was using, was that the subject would speak of what they saw in their minds, rather than editing to suit the listener.

"Dr. Gideon is dead as well," replied Dr. Lecter quietly. "He didn't survive your bullet, any more than Alana survived his."

Will had a fleeting thought that they were both his bullets. If he hadn't been there – with his gun –

"Alana would have died anyway," Dr. Lecter continued. "Dr. Gideon was there to kill her."

Suddenly, Will's hospital bed was breathing, pulsing. It would swallow him up. He had to get out! "Dr. Lecter, let me go. I can't stay here." Will tried not to show his terror, but of course, he failed; he stood no chance against the chemicals racing through his blood. Hannibal fed on Will's fear like a tiger devouring a lamb. One taste of that fear was more precious than a thousand of the hearts he had stopped. "Where am I? This isn't the hospital."

"The restraints are for your own protection," Hannibal replied soothingly. "You're in my home. You were discharged into my care as soon as it was safe."

"Protection from what? From my own delusions?" Will snarled. "I don't need protecting, Dr. Lecter. I know she's dead. I'm not going to hurt myself. I'm not going to – to …"

He couldn't go any further. Couldn't say that when the first spadeful of earth fell, he heard it hit from inside Alana's casket. That his heart was still down there, under the ground, decaying with her, slowly. That he wished someone had set it on fire instead. But that he also knew it was not his fate to follow her yet.

But Hannibal heard what Will didn't say. And Hannibal waited. He watched Will's face crumple. Disorientation, helpless rage, despair had had their moments… and now, now came the break.

When the first tears coursed down Will's cheeks, Dr. Lecter hastened to his side. He cradled Will's head in his hands and contorted his own features into an expression of sympathy. But while ostensibly using his handkerchief to dry Will's face, he was careful to catch one of those glistening tears in his fingers. Then, of course, when he dropped the handkerchief on the floor, he had a reason to be out of Will's line of sight. He excused his clumsiness and bent down to retrieve it, smugly glad that Will could not see his face now. His only regret was that he had only a moment to savor this unique taste: sweet-hot water and bitter salt. Liquid pain. Will's pain. He stood back up slowly.

As soon as he noticed that Will was no longer pulling against the wrist restraints, Dr. Lecter loosened them. He took Will's hands in his own and leaned as close to Will as he dared. Will's eyes, dark with sorrow, red with blood, focused on Hannibal's. There was no tinge of fear in Will's scent now. The fevered sweetness was there, but reduced, muted by the smell of his tears. Hannibal's heart sped up. If Will only knew how close he was… how close he was to death, in so many ways. Only he wasn't. Because Will Graham was so much more interesting alive than dead.

"Will, she's gone," Hannibal murmured to distract himself. He allowed his mouth to draw in, his eyes to close briefly as if in sorrow. "You must concentrate on getting well."

"Getting well," Will mused. He pointedly broke eye contact with Dr. Lecter, twisting his head the opposite way. "So that… what? So I can help Jack Crawford catch more killers?" His mouth twisted in a smile. "So this can happen again? Fail to catch one, just one, in time, and watch more of my friends die?"

"No one's making you do anything," Hannibal reassured him. "You don't have to go near the FBI again. You could – "

"I know what Jack is saying," Will spat. "What are the odds of this happening again? Compared to the lives I could save?" He laughed bitterly, then choked on a sob. "There are no odds, Doctor." He looked back at Dr. Lecter. "It will never happen again, because there will never be another her." He drew in a shaky breath. "What more do I have to lose? She was never mine in the first place."

He lowered his head into his hands and wept.

Once he was sure Will wasn't going to attempt to pull out his IV, Hannibal quietly stepped back from the hospital bed and turned away. He was having trouble mastering himself. He reminded himself he had to be patient. Will would be hung up on this loss for a while. Not to mention, Will's distress was entirely Hannibal's fault. But Hannibal couldn't help wondering: if it had been Hannibal instead of Alana, would Will have mourned him this way? Would he have mourned him at all?

"Where are you going?" Will's voice held just a touch of panic. A rush of warmth filled Hannibal's breast at the sound. Will did care for him. Will wanted him there.

Dr. Lecter quickly turned back to his patient. "I was just going to give you some privacy. You've been through quite a shock, Will." _And you don't know the half of it, _he thought.

"Don't – don't go, Dr. Lecter." Hannibal studied Will's face: tear-streaked, swollen, exhausted. Why had he wasted time wondering whether Will cared? Will needed him; Will was entirely dependent on him for treatment, sustenance, and – most importantly – information about the outside world. Will Graham was his. And he would remain so until Dr. Lecter saw fit to release him.

"I'm going to give you something to help you relax." Dr. Lecter prepped a syringe and uncapped the access point of Will's IV. He could feel the heat of Will's body through the thin hospital gown. As he performed the injection, he heard Will half-whisper, "Dr. Lecter?"

"Yes?" His response was almost too quick. He recapped the IV and adjusted Will's gown, careful not to look Will in the face.

"I mean it. Will you stay with me?" Will's voice was shaking. "I don't want to be alone again. Not right now."

"Nor will you have to," Hannibal soothed. He met Will's eyes briefly and smiled. "I have an endless supply of books for a reason. They kept me company until you woke." He paused. "Would you like me to read to you?"

Nothing could have prepared him for Will's reaction. Will gasped, his face like that of a man who had just been punched – hard. Hannibal's eyes shifted to the IV site, fearing an adverse drug reaction, but before he made another move he glanced back at Will's face. Noticed the unfocused quality of his gaze. Saw that Will was not looking at him, but through him. Remembering something.

And Hannibal waited.

Will recovered quickly. "Y-yes. I'd like that very much."

"Very well," Hannibal replied smoothly, pretending not to have noticed Will's break in composure. Soon enough, he reminded himself, he would find out what it was about. "Unless you're hungry?"

Will looked thoughtful. "I am, actually. Starving, now that you mention it."

Hannibal smiled. "It's been quite a while since you had solid food. Perhaps we should start you with something liquid?"

"More of your chicken soup?" A ghost of the old Will was back, teasing him.

"Just the broth first, I'm afraid," Hannibal replied, inclining his head briefly in apology. "But don't worry. If your stomach proves able to handle it, you'll graduate to the entire recipe soon enough."

"Thank you, Dr. Lecter," Will sighed. He lay back in the hospital bed and closed his eyes.

* * *

As Hannibal made his way back from the kitchen with swift strides, he saw that Will was already asleep again – one effect of the latest drug he'd given Will. He carefully covered the bowl of broth and set it on a side table.

Ignoring the stack of books beside his chair, he focused again on Will's sleeping face, on the rhythm of his heart, listening to each inhale and exhale. It was only then that he noticed that the sun had set. Hannibal and Will now dwelt in shadow in the tiny room, breathless on the edge of true night.

And as night fell, the perfect black circles of Hannibal's pupils dilated just a little more, as if absorbing and reflecting the growing darkness around them.


	2. It was Clear We Couldn't Go On

_Author's Note: okay, I keep having bouts of writer's block, but at the same time it feels like this story is trying to chew its way out of me. Any suggestions or ideas about where this thing could go are quite welcome. I really feel it will be eventual Hannigram, but beyond that there are several possible directions it could take._

* * *

The next days slipped by in a dreamlike, timeless fashion for both Will and Hannibal. Hannibal carefully contrived Will's periods of heavy sedation to take place when Hannibal had appointments to keep. He abhorred the times when he had to tear himself away from his favorite patient. And he lived for the moments when Will was awake, awake and aware.

Or at least, as aware as Dr. Lecter allowed him to be. Will slipped in and out of intense bouts of grief, memory regression, and pseudo-hypnotherapy, assisted by the medications… and by the slowly-returning symptoms of encephalitis.

Hannibal knew he was treating Will like a favorite toy – one that Mother had always limited his time with before, saving it as a reward for good behavior. And now Mother (also known by the name Jack Crawford) was out of the picture… and Hannibal could play and play… with no end in sight to the game. The drugs were his perfect messengers, obedient golden retrievers who never tired of running after the tennis ball, placing it back into their master's waiting hands, tails wagging eagerly. Whatever memory or emotion Hannibal needed Will to access – one administration of the right mix of chemicals, one well-placed question or suggestion, and there it was.

Even if the memory was so obscure, Will didn't remember that he remembered it.

Even if the memory wasn't of something that had actually happened.

And here was the one flaw in this beautiful work of art that Hannibal was creating. It could never last.

This shouldn't bother him, of course. Nothing worthwhile ever lasted forever; as one great poet had put it, "nothing gold can stay". It was the nature of beautiful things that time ravaged them. Paintings, carven statues, relationships, plants and animals… human beings. How beautiful the shine of the sunlight on his sister's hair; her shivering, desperate warmth when he hugged her, her body frail as bird bones; the sound of her tiny voice; even her little tears. But in the end, Mischa, too, had been reduced to meat and bones, the gleaming pearls of her baby teeth discarded in the stool pit by their captors. Just another _thing_ they used up and threw away.

But oh… he wanted Will to stay gold. Stay this beautiful, this malleable. Because killing Will wasn't an option. Nothing in Will's muscles or bones or organs would be worth consuming, compared to the immeasurable worth of the pure poetry that composed the inside of the man's mind. The poetry that he was speaking aloud, that Hannibal was helping him to create. The poetry that Will would not remember later, through the twilight sleep the drugs created … but that Hannibal would never forget.

No, he couldn't kill Will… but he couldn't keep him alive, either. Not like this. Not indefinitely.

For the first time in his life, Dr. Lecter didn't have a plan. No Plan A, B, or C. Nothing. Just an awesome reluctance to leave Will's side, and an equally awesome longing to return there when he had to leave it.

* * *

As it happened, it was Will himself who was the catalyst, who brought about the beginning of the end.

It was one of the times when, in the midst of his raw anguish, Will began to thrash and scream, unwittingly putting stress on his IV site. Hannibal had learned that his physical presence was more effective at calming Will than the restraints, and so he deftly climbed into the hospital bed with his patient. He lay on his side, one arm lightly across Will's chest, covering his arms and restricting his movement without seeming to do so. Almost immediately Will stopped his contortions, and merely clung to Hannibal as he sobbed. His eyes were tightly closed. He was moaning Alana's name, over and over.

As physically close as he was to Will, Hannibal was also hyper-aware of his own body. He was very sensitive to any sort of touch – a characteristic that had saved his life many times over. Thus he knew the instant Will's hand made contact with his side. Will was stroking him gently, deliberately, from just below Hannibal's ribs to the protruding hipbone, and back up to the ribs again.

It took Hannibal a moment longer to realize that, under the influence of the medication, Will's mood had shifted mercurially from grief to arousal. He wondered why Will hadn't opened his eyes; then he remembered that Will's one experience with Alana had been in a utility closet where there was very little light. His eyes had been closed almost the entire time.

And then Hannibal froze.

It had been a while since Will's last dose; if Will opened his eyes at this moment, Hannibal honestly did not know whom he would see – his presumed-dead lover, or his very-much-alive doctor? And even if he didn't open his eyes, if Will's hand wandered much farther, whatever illusion he was experiencing would almost certainly be broken. The angular planes of Hannibal's body bore little resemblance to Alana's ripe curves.

Knowing he had to do _something, _Hannibal silently leaned in and touched the side of Will's face, as he knew Alana had done at one point during their encounter. At the same time, he shifted his weight enough to free his other hand, which quickly sought out the trigger for Will's next dose of liquid amnesia.

Soon he felt Will relax against him, murmuring softly. Hannibal slowly shifted backward and climbed out of the hospital bed with a sigh of relief. Once both feet were firmly on the floor, he looked down at his hands and was surprised to see himself trembling. It was a close call.

It was also the exact moment when he realized it was time to start pulling Will out. Hannibal had gotten what he wanted. He was now so familiar with the inside of Will's head, with every meaningful experience and core belief, that he could continue his experiment once Will was free, even once the encephalitis was properly diagnosed and cured. Past a certain point, what he was doing was only self-indulgence. Besides that, he wanted to see Will healthy; to see how his shattered self would compare to his whole self.

Thus, Hannibal had only two important tasks left.

The first was to wait for Will's symptoms to become severe enough to check him back into the hospital. This would not take long.

The second was to wean Will off the chemicals, allowing him to believe that he had "recovered" enough to receive visitors. One visitor in particular.

Alana Bloom.


	3. Hold My Hands Forever

"Come in, please," Dr. Lecter offered, the picture of polite solemnity. He did not quite smile.

Dr. Bloom stepped through the door, not smiling at all.

She turned to Hannibal and consulted with him in lowered tones, one doctor to another.

"How is he?"

"Beyond what we discussed on the phone?" Alana nodded solemnly. "He's lucid, to a point. However, the fever is beginning to return. I fear we'll need to transport him back to the hospital if there is no significant improvement by tomorrow."

"What does 'lucid, to a point' mean, Dr. Lecter?" She was like a mother tiger, unblinking, staring down a fellow predator – unsure how dangerous he was, but very aware of her own teeth and claws. That she had a cub to protect.

Hannibal inclined his head the slightest bit, acknowledging her point. "He's confused about certain events, and is having trouble distinguishing fact from fiction. I'm ordering another brain MRI for him as soon as feasible."

"'Certain events'?" Again, her gaze was predatory. "Which _events?"_

"Dr. Bloom – "

"Forget it, Hannibal. Just let me see him."

He shrugged his shoulders, as if in defeat. "Very well." This little scenario was playing out better than he had expected.

* * *

Alana's first impression was of _light. _At this hour, the little recovery room was drenched in sun; the sheets and blankets of Will's bed, and even his gown, were perfect hospital-starched white.

Her second impression was that, if anything, Will looked worse. He appeared to be resting quietly, but his skin had a bleached look to it. A book lay open on his chest; its mild taupe-colored cover looked brown next to his pale face. Moving closer, she could see the sweat beading on his upper lip and brow; noted the dampness of the clothing around his neck and shoulders.

At the sight of the IV stand (now rolled back into a corner until it should be needed again), she turned to Lecter with an accusatory glare. "He was dehydrated for the first few days," Hannibal explained smoothly. "He's eating and drinking normally now."

"Will?" It came out as a whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Will?"

His eyes snapped open, finding and fastening on her face with remarkable focus. For a moment, it seemed he was struggling to breathe. His gaze flew around the room wildly before coming to rest on Hannibal… then Alana again. Then he looked down at the book on his chest, blinking furiously, composing himself. He looked like a little boy who was struggling not to cry. Alana wanted to cry, too.

With quick strides, Hannibal joined Alana at Will's bedside. Will looked so stricken that for an instant Hannibal wondered whether this whole thing was about to blow up in his face. That would be most unpleasant.

"Will?" Hannibal put on his most concerned-physician face. "Will, Dr. Bloom has come to visit you. She's been very worried about – "

"Alana?" Will breathed. He allowed himself to look up again. "Alana, is that really you?"

"Of course it's me," she reassured him. _What the hell? _ "I would have come sooner, but I didn't want to interfere with your recov – "

"A-Alana." He reached for her hand. Once he had captured it, he bent his entire body forward, curling himself around her hand like a shrimp – and yet did not squeeze or crush it, or pull her unduly toward him. Alana thought fleetingly that he looked like a parody of courtly love – a man fawning with his entire being over a lady's hand… the only part of her he was allowed to touch.

She did not realize he was weeping until his scalding tears dripped onto her flesh.

"Will!" She stopped herself from jerking her hand away just in time. "Will – Will, you're safe here. It's all right. Nothing bad is going to happen to you."

"How about – about what happened to you?" He glanced back up at her for just a moment. Will's face was a contorted mask of tears and snot and sweat. "I thought – I thought you were – " He couldn't finish. Alana could only watch in helplessness as he broke down completely. Between bouts of sobbing, he released her hand, not really wanting to let go, but realizing how awkward this must be for her. His hands drifted to his sides. He fisted the sheets, curling up reflexively again, rocking back and forth slowly.

It was that – that small, frail attempt at bravery, at letting go, at being considerate of her even when he was obviously so distressed and in need of care – which made Alana aware, without a doubt, that she loved him; that she would go on loving him until there was no love left, or until there was nothing left to love.

"Will," Hannibal broke in (and Alana had never wanted to murder someone so much in her life), "you have to rest if you ever hope to recover."

"Isn't that what he's been doing?" she half-snapped at Lecter. "Resting?"

Dr. Lecter fixed his gaze firmly on the floor in front of him and said nothing. Instantly, she felt awful. "Hannibal, I'm sorry," she amended hastily. "Let's continue this outside." She turned her full attention back to Will. Miraculously, he was no longer crying. He was simply studying her through swollen eyes, as if she were a rare butterfly that was apt to flit away at any moment.

From the corner where an IV stand rested calmly, a voice hissed at Will: "Honor every part of her."

_I did, _Will wanted to retaliate, but refrained from speaking while the others were in the room. _I will. Just not like you would. _

"Dr. Bloom. Alana?" He stopped her just as she was about to cross the threshold, Lecter in the lead. She looked back at him over her shoulder, her eyes dark with some emotion he could not name.

"Thank you for coming by," he choked out. "Please – come see me again soon. If you can."

"Don't worry. I will." Her voice held no trace of a lie; he could see that she meant it.

He had no idea how he managed to contain the tears for even another second; but contain them he did, till the door was closed and the two doctors were on in the other room, discussing him in hushed tones.

He was so hot, yet so evanescent. He felt like a paper doll of himself, set on fire; even his tears were evaporating in the smoke.


	4. Looked Backward and Said Goodbye

_Back under the water; back at the bottom of the lake. Occasionally a bright light, a star gone nova in his face; distorted voices, heard from far under the surface. _

She came to visit him every day. She read to him. _He was never aware of her voice – or if he was, never aware that it was she who spoke. He felt, dimly, the grasp on his limp hand, as the occasional fish or snail or other creature pulling at him, eating small parts of him – the bits he wouldn't miss. _

But _he_ never left, except for those appointments he could not avoid. He slept in the easy chair that converted into a bed; woke to observe Will's treatment, never interfering; made all the appropriate noises over the unfortunate results of Will's latest brain scan; noted by degrees the decrease of the fevered sweetness in Will's scent. He knew that Will would likely never sense the gentle pressure of his hand, and would surely never remember whose hand it was that calmed him when he seemed caught in an uneasy dream.

He had only one goal now: to be there when Will woke. To see Will aware, cognizant. Not a medicated zombie; not an invalid whose brain was slowly cooking inside the skull. Awake.

He wasn't sure how the game would continue. Only that it would.

He could sense, with the unblinking watchfulness of a reptilian predator, Will's gradual ascent through the layers of his medically-induced coma. Will awakened in stages. Eyes open for a minute or two, but seeing nothing. Loud grunts or other sounds when the nurses had to turn him or move his limbs, or tried to communicate with him in overly-loud, patronizing voices, as if he were hearing-impaired or a young child. Progression to brief moments where Hannibal was sure he made eye contact. Then longer periods of wakefulness. Without words, Hannibal felt that his presence was known.

And he waited.

Maddeningly – infuriatingly – when Will finally spoke, it was not to Hannibal. Alana Bloom was visiting. Hannibal was politely pretending to read a book. In actuality, he was observing Will as Dr. Bloom read to him. He noted the exact moment Alana's voice broke, interrupted by a cool, weak grip on her wrist. She'd been so absorbed in her reading that she hadn't noticed Will watching her for some time.

"Where – where the hell am I?" he croaked. "Hospital again?"

"Yes," she responded, capturing his hand and holding it like an injured bird. "They found out – "

"I feel … different," he announced, his voice a bit stronger.

"You had encephalitis, Will," Hannibal broke in smoothly. He now stood at the other side of Will's bed, hands clasped behind him. He was surprised at how much he resented Dr. Bloom in this moment; how he wished he could grasp Will's other hand without it seeming out of place (as Dr. Lecter was not given to emotional displays). As it was, Will turned his head at the sound of Hannibal's voice, and something in his gaze made Hannibal quiver inside. Will was like a high-powered microscope, capable of exposing Hannibal's difference – his illness, some would call it. Will's beam had been out of focus. Now it was corrected, albeit still a bit weak. Once it was restored to full strength… Hannibal's heart kicked in his chest, like a horse clearing a jump. Here was a worthy opponent. Here was Hannibal's destiny.

Dr. Bloom broke the silence. "It was revealed on the latest brain scan," she informed him quietly. "Previous scans didn't detect it. The symptoms can easily be mistaken for other maladies."

"That's what was causing my fever? The hallucinations?" Will was still staring at Dr. Lecter. Hannibal nodded and returned his gaze evenly, never betraying a hint of the growing unease in his mind. He had no way of knowing that the creature Will was seeing bore little resemblance to him.

The thing slowly blinked its black eyes and turned its head toward Dr. Bloom. Will glanced at Alana and then back again… and now the dark stag-man was gone, and there was only Dr. Lecter.

"We were so glad – so glad to find out what was wrong," Alana continued. "You've been in a medically-induced coma while they treated you."

"Am I cured?" Will's head tilted curiously, like a dog's.

"You'll still need to stay in the hospital a few more days," replied Hannibal, "to be sure the symptoms won't return. You'll have to submit to a few more tests."

Will's chuckle broke into a cough. "Ah, tests. I can never get enough, it seems. Will this testing be mental or physical?"

"Both," replied Drs. Lecter and Bloom at the exact same moment. Their eyes met and unexpectedly, Dr. Bloom laughed out loud. After a moment, Lecter joined her. Will merely smiled – a smile which quickly faded.

"How long was I out?" he asked urgently.

"Just under two weeks," Dr. Lecter replied. "Dr. Bloom and I have stayed with you as often as we could. Jack visited as well."

Will's mouth hardened at the mention of Jack. "Good of him to stop by," he commented at last.

Alana seemed to have no intention of leaving Will's side, so Hannibal was the one to page the nurse on call, informing her of Will's change in status. He let Dr. Bloom do most of the talking until the medical staff arrived; then he watched them take over as appropriate. He sat patiently in the background, speaking only when spoken to, but missing nothing.

When they left, Hannibal decided it was time for him to vacate the premises as well. It seemed appropriate now that Will was awake. He would be receiving more visitors.

In the very back of his mind, there was also the uncomfortable thought that Will did not want him there anymore… if, indeed, Will ever had. Hannibal brought that thought forward to examine it. It was not entirely rational, but there it was.

Technically, Will did not need Dr. Bloom, either. And yet she stayed. For reasons entirely opposite of the technical. Like the predator he was, Hannibal could smell her wild hope and desire, strong as honeysuckle vines tenaciously climbing a wall. What would she do with him, now that he was more… how had Will said that she phrased it, during one of his sobbed, drugged confessions? … ah, yes. More _stable. _What claim did she feel she had on him? One quick and fevered kiss; one hurried encounter in a closet?

Briefly, Hannibal pictured a world without Alana Bloom. A world where Will's state of induced grief became entirely real … entirely _permanent._

All in good time, he told himself. All in good time. Let's see how the game unfolds.

* * *

"Well, that didn't take long," Dr. Bloom muttered under her breath.

"Will is a stubborn person," Dr. Lecter replied, keeping his voice low. "In some ways he reminds me of a racehorse."

Dr. Bloom flashed him a sideways glance, silverfish-quick. "Shoot him when he breaks a leg?"

"I was thinking either put him in the race or put him out to pasture," Dr. Lecter replied smoothly.

"Well, he's in the race now." Her tone was not quite annoyed. Will was, after all, free to choose his own path now that he was no longer a patient_, _Hannibal thought disdainfully. They stood a respectful distance from Jack's desk and made idle chitchat until they were beckoned forward.

"We've got another one," Jack reported grimly. "Same M.O, same area of town. Not the same venue."

"Same band," Will broke in.

"The same band as last time," Jack rebuked mildly, "but not the time before that. Or the one before that."

"We shouldn't care," Will replied almost mournfully. "The band isn't the lure for him."

"Let's go see for ourselves," Jack grunted, pushing out of his chair, "and then you can tell me what the lure is."

* * *

Try as he might, Will couldn't think of the victim as a man. He was just a boy. His hair was quite a bit longer than Will's had ever been, and he was taller and lankier than Will; still, he reminded Will of himself at fourteen, struggling to make his voice sound deeper and more manly, cursing the patchy non-beard that would never quite cover his face. His dad teasing him about the balding caterpillar on his upper lip.

The side of his neck had been punctured. Something about the wound looked odd to Will. "Eat your heart out with a rusty spoon," he muttered to himself. _Spoon? Well, it wasn't a knife, for sure. No sharp edges. Something – no, let Price and Zeller figure out the particulars. Now, why do I want to pierce with something blunt? A dick pierces, but isn't sharp. Am I gay? Do I hate gay people? Do I think this guy is gay? _

_Was I angry, because I saw his hair and mistook him for a girl? No, I didn't, because the last four were male, too, and they didn't look like him. Features were more rugged. Less refined._

_But nothing else refined about this kid. Torn jeans and a black T-shirt with the neck and the sleeves ripped out. Did I tear them? No, I didn't. The edges are too frayed, graying. Is there gray in my hair? Do I resent his youth?_

_I think I do. Why?_

Dimly, Will was aware that no one was near him. No one was trying to talk to him. Jack was keeping them away. Dimly, he was pleased. He would thank him, later.

_Why do I resent his youth? What did I lose? What did I miss out on? No, that's too cliché. Who does he remind me of, then? Who am I killing?_

_Am I even killing the same person over and over? Different heights, weights, ages, styles of dress, lifestyles. All under 25, though. What did his death give me that nothing else could?_

_When I saw his face, I got so angry. So angry I literally saw red. So angry I couldn't wait. Why did I use what I did? Because it was handy. It was in my hand. It was dark, the parking lot was empty. It's a habit to carry it –_

Will came up, just for one breath, and was pleased to see Jack, hovering. "Something inconspicuous, maybe even disguised as something else, but it can be used for self-defense," he shot quickly. "Something that he carried with him all the time. Not obvious as a weapon." Without waiting to see what Jack would say, he dove back in.

_Just a few inches higher, and I would have had his head. His face. That ugly, beautiful face. If I could have, I would have stuck him in the eye. Straight through to the brain. Why couldn't I?_

_I'm too short. This boy is tall – lanky, but tall. _

_They were all tall. That's part of why I hate them._

_They were all killed where I could reach._ A flash, sudden as fireworks bursting in the black sky, of the three other dead men. Slit throat, on the side of the carotid artery. Stab to the larynx with something tiny and sharp – the big guy had literally choked on his own blood. Blunt object, likely a baseball bat, to the cervical spine and then the temple.

_I reached as high as I could. I knew it would be high enough. I don't think before I do this. I don't mean to do this, really. I think if I actually stopped to plan it, I'd screw it up. Afterwards, I don't think about it as much as some people probably think I do. I don't cover my tracks. I just make sure no one sees me before I strike._

_Strike. Snake. They never see me coming. I am too well hidden by the grass. Camouflaged._

_What is my grass? Do I blend in so well that no one would suspect me? _

_No. They don't think I'm a threat._

_They don't think I'm a threat because –_

"I'm a kid", Will said. "Or I look frail. People want to help me."

Jack didn't say anything. Will stared at him, not seeing him; he dove under again.

_Am I old enough to drive? I think I am. One of the shows was 18 and over only. Although they didn't enforce it very strictly at the door. I left bloody tire tracks three murders ago. Is there someone in my life that I trust enough to cover for me?_

_No, there isn't. That's why I do what I do. No one to cover me, when there should have been. Daddy issues? Absent father? I kill these guys because –_

"There's some misunderstanding," he murmured quietly. "Or there is in my head. It's not how they look, it's how they behave."

He centered, came back to himself, stood up shakily.

Jack circumnavigated the body and stood beside him. Waiting.

"Look for someone young," Will began in a low, level voice. Anyone who didn't know him will would mistake that tone for calm. "Or who appears young. This guy might be underage; maybe a kid, but not too young – but either way, he gets away with it because people underestimate him. He's – nonthreatening."

"Why does he do it?" What would be outrageous to speculate about to anyone else, was a perfectly reasonable question for Will.

"Because he's angry," Will responded in that same near-calm tone. " He's so angry." He paused. "But I don't know why yet. I can tell you this much, he's not killing the same person over and over. He's killing what … what that person represents. Or could represent."

Jack nodded.

Will felt a cool presence behind him; calm, composed in an almost reptilian way. Detached. "Dr. Lecter," he said, stepping back and to the side to include him in the conversation. He would have felt annoyed, before, he realized. Now, he could recognize that he was done with his – his part. He was ready to interact.

How much had the encephalitis burned away who he really was, while it had its grip on him?

* * *

"Well, that was an exercise in futility," Dr. Lecter sniffed as they got into the car.

Will was still trembling inside from the effect of the music – or rather, the effect that the music had on those around him. He didn't think he'd ever been in a mosh pit before. Luckily, no one had hit him anyplace particularly sensitive. He swiped at the sweat still on his brow and mopped the area under his eyes, only to find that some of his supposedly-waterproof eyeliner was now coating his fingers. He sighed. No matter what Jack and Alana said about his suitability for certain kinds of undercover work… he was of the firm opinion that he was too old for this shit.

"I don't know about futility," Will answered carefully as he started the engine, "but I didn't pick up much of anything." He paused. "Except that when I'm not getting pummeled to death, I could really get into this sort of music."

He could feel Hannibal's eyes on him, questioning. "It's very … full of energy," he tried to explain.

"That's certainly true," Hannibal conceded. His demeanor was much calmer than Will's. He also looked much more like his usual self than Will did. No full suit tonight, but he was dressed formally enough that he hadn't stuck out among the row of record execs lining the back wall, pretending to be inconspicuous, knowing that they drew attention by their very stillness. Hiding in plain sight, as it were.

Will sighed. "Let's get back to town. I smell like I just took a bath in beer."

Hannibal smiled, just a little. "Maybe the smell of the smoke from the guy next to me will help camouflage your scent."

Will let out a bark of laughter. Glancing around, he pulled out of the parking lot.

They circled the venue once or twice before leaving.

Nothing out of place.

* * *

"Will, it's the oldest trick in the book," Hannibal insisted. "People mug each other all the time this way."

"I know that, Dr. Lecter, but I also know a flat tire when I see one. And he's driving a Bentley. If he's gonna mug us, he'd be trading down."

Dr. Lecter didn't reply.

Pulling their borrowed rattle-trap of a car over to the side of the road, Will jumped out. As he walked, he yanked his cell phone out of his jeans pocket. Quietly, stealthily, not wanting to startle Will but unwilling to risk his safety, Dr. Lecter moved to follow.

Neither Will nor the young blond man ever heard Dr. Lecter's door open; the car's position on the side of the road hid the passenger side from view.

Neither man heard Dr. Lecter approach from the other side of the car, freezing in place in the shadows with the unerring instinct of a stalking predator.

Both Will and Dr. Lecter heard the young man say he'd gotten out the spare but left his jack in the trunk, laughing at himself as he headed back to correct his mistake.

But only Dr. Lecter saw the young man's face change as the trunk opened. Saw him grab not a jack, but a tire iron. Saw him wield it like a weapon, circling back around, keeping the car between himself and Will so he would have the advantage of surprise.

It was only later that Lecter remembered the slight stature and compact build of the young man and compared it to Will's sketchy profile of their killer. At the time, all he saw was another predator about to _take what was his. _

Neither Will nor the young man ever saw Lecter coming.

Coldly, calculating every move faster than should have been humanly possible, Lecter grabbed the young man from behind and slit his throat with the scalpel. The blond man instinctively swung his hands – including the tire iron – toward his neck, an awful, gagged gurgling issuing from him as he tried to scream. Without really thinking about what he was doing, Lecter grabbed the tire tool rushing toward his face, jammed it into the gaping wound, and twisted as he lowered the dying man to the ground. The blood did not just gush, it sprayed out in great gouts – away from Dr. Lecter, out into the grass beside the road. By force of habit, Lecter pulled out a shirttail and swiped any prints he may have left off the handle of the tire iron. Some blood did get on the shirt, but it wouldn't show when he had his jacket on, he thought. A fairly neat job for something so unexpected.

Glancing to his left, toward the front of the car, he noticed Will for the first time. His face was a broadcast.

Will had seen it all.

All he said was: "Come on. We have to get out of here."


End file.
